O, Canada
by mahc
Summary: JED-ABBEY-ENSEMBLE Post-ep for “Dead Irish Writers,” and gives a more in-depth view of the events during and after Abbey’s birthday party. It also deals with how Jed and Abbey face her decision to relinquish her medical license.
1. Champagne Cork

**_O, Canada_ Series**

**by MAHC**

**Characters:** C.J., but also Jed and Abbey

**Category:** Drama/Romance

**Pairing:** Jed/Abbey

**Rating:** Mature

**Author's Notes:** This is a post-ep for "Dead Irish Writers," and gives a more in-depth view of the events during and after Abbey's birthday party. It also deals with how Jed and Abbey face her decision to relinquish her medical license.

**O, Canada**

**A _West Wing_ Story**

**Part One: Champagne Cork**

POV: C.J. Cregg

Spoilers: DIW

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, but I wish they were.

C.J. Cregg pressed her finger harder against the persistent throbbing between her eyes. Why the hell had she agreed to get drunk with Abigail Bartlet? Okay, that was a stupid question. The First Lady says, "Claudia Jean, let's get drunk," you get drunk. Still, as loose as she had been upstairs in the residence, Abbey Bartlet now showed no signs of drunkenness, not even a tipsy giggle. C.J. envied her that ability. As she tried to block out the plethora of party noises bouncing off her tender eardrums, she ran her tongue over her teeth to dislodge a piece of cork and stood silently.

It was hard to read Abbey Bartlet sometimes. Okay, most times. She was enigmatic: at once graceful and tough, eloquent and profane, headstrong and – well – headstrong. But when Abbey admitted errors, she went all out and C.J. heard total sincerity in the First Lady's assurances to Donna, who had appeared suddenly, still apologizing for gross insubordination for calling the First Lady on her abuse of physicians' ethics over the betaseron.

C.J.'s thoughts jumped back to her own revelation to the First Lady that her long-time friend and ally, in an untimely display of ethics, was bowing out of her hearing. That disappointment had prompted Abbey to suggest their champagne pity party and eventually led to Donna's over-the-line comment. Curiously though, the First Lady's attitude had changed at that point and she had abruptly decided they should return to her birthday party.

The pounding in C.J.'s head subsided a bit, but she still didn't really follow the odd exchange between Josh and Amy, except to hear the latter toss out the description "jackass." She heard Abbey laugh at that and wondered if there was more to it than she knew. Then Josh was telling Donna that she really was American, or at least could be again, and suddenly the room burst into the Canadian national anthem as crossed maple leaf flags rose majestically.

"What the hell is going on?" The President approached, his twinkling eyes belying the gruff tone of his voice. "I was gone for forty-five minutes. They were all Americans when I left!"

He extended his hand and C.J. blushed a bit because his smile was one few of them ever saw. It was reserved strictly for Abigail Bartlet. It was a lover's smile and spoke of intimate knowledge between the two of them. As Abbey placed her hand in his and slipped away, C.J. contemplated her next move. No more corky champagne, that was for sure. She swiped a glass of water from a passing waiter's tray and glanced about the room as everyone sang, with unexpected ability, "O, Canada."

Her eyes fell back to where the President and Abbey stood, and she caught her breath, because Abbey's face had changed. No longer was it the party face she put on for the guests, or the motherly face of reassurance she had shown Donna. It wasn't even the soft glow of a lover that she had given the President when he took her hand. No, this face was disturbing. It was scared. C.J. recalled the only other time she had seen Abbey Bartlet scared. That was in the emergency room at George Washington when her husband lay bleeding from a bullet wound, and they were all scared. This was different. Abbey held her gaze solidly on her husband, waiting it appeared, for him to respond to something she had said, waiting with almost audible anxiety.

Not wanting to intrude, but instantly concerned, C.J. edged closer and angled herself to see both of their faces. At once, she felt the bitter taste of panic rise in her throat. Over the course of the campaign and three years in office, she had seen Jed Bartlet angry, impatient, ecstatic, surprised, even flat-on-his-face unconscious, but she had never seen him completely and totally stunned. Now, he stared at his wife, unmoving, unable to speak. _Oh my God. What has she told him? What has happened?_

The moment drew out, longer and longer. C.J. saw others around them begin to take notice that his easy grin had disappeared. The President of the United States was visibly shaken. Finally, he seemed to realize it, because he broke the stare and glanced around self-consciously. Abbey continued to watch him. Then C.J. saw him nod and Abbey's trembling smile returned for a moment. But Bartlet wasn't finished, because he spoke again and C.J. could lip-read at least part of what he said.

"— love you very much."

Tears brimmed at her own eyes as she saw them pool in the First Lady's. Then Abbey said something else and C.J. was positive the President was only seconds away from kissing his wife right there in the middle of the room in front of everybody. She found herself urging him on silently. But the moment was shattered by the noisy return of Lord Marbury.

"Abigail, may I grasp your breasts?"

C.J. had just lifted the glass of water to her lips and managed to spray a good portion of the table next to her when she heard the brazen request. Her eyes flew to the President, half expecting to see Marbury already flat on the ground. Visions of the catchphrase "Bartlet Bashes Brit" plastered on the screen next to Wolf Blitzer flashed before her. Her mind groped for a way she could spin a news headline about the President of the United States smashing his fist into the British Ambassador's face. But, to her surprise, Bartlet seemed only mildly annoyed.

"I'm standing right here," he proclaimed.

Undaunted, Marbury kissed Abbey on the cheek, as she had graciously permitted. Then Leo appeared and wished her a happy birthday, and the President stepped beside her, slipping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close as they all finished singing the Canadian national anthem.

As a soft buzz settled in her ears, C.J. relaxed into the post-climactic stage of the party, slumping into one vacant chair, kicking off her shoes, and propping her feet in another one. She didn't even stir when the chair to her left squeaked with a new occupant.

"Hey."

The familiar voice pulled her back from the quasi-comatose state she had almost entered, and she answered, not needing to open her eyes to identify her new companion.

"What's up, Tobes?"

"Brendan McGann cannot come to the White House."

"Okay."

"No, really. He can't. But – he must, and it's okay."

She sighed, used to Toby's cryptic conversations. "You WILL give me a couple of seconds heads up before whatever you're talking about gets slammed in my face by the entire Washington Press Corps, okay?"

"You got it."

She risked a peek from her left eye and saw him sipping gently at a generous mug of ale that she was pretty sure had not been among the liquors offered a the party she had attended. He was calm and understated, but she recognized a smirk of satisfaction on his face. "What did you do tonight?" she asked. She had not seen him since early in the evening.

"Had a beer with a friend. You?"

"I got drunk with the First Lady."

He took that bit of information with on a nod of acknowledgement, as if it there was nothing unusual about it. They sat quietly for another minute or two.

"Where _is_ the First Lady?" he asked.

This time, C.J. opened both eyes and looked around. The crowd was not quite as thick as before, but at least a hundred partiers remained. Conspicuously absent, however, were the Guest of Honor and her husband.

"Well, they were here a minute ago." She smiled slightly as she remembered the First Couple's intimate glances just before they joined everyone in the song. She doubted they would see the Bartlets anymore that evening. Turning to Toby, she cocked her head toward the bandstand, where the swing band stilled jammed, and invited, "Wanna dance?"

He shrugged and rose, leading her, shoeless, onto the floor.


	2. Only for a Little While

**_O, Canada_ Series**

Author: Amanda (MAHC)

Title: O, Canada: Only for a Little While

Characters: Jed and Abbey

Category: Drama/Romance

Pairing: Jed/Abbey

Rating: Mature

Author's Notes: This is a post-ep for "Dead Irish Writers," and gives a more in-depth view of the events during and after Abbey's birthday party. It also deals with how Jed and Abbey face her decision to relinquish her medical license.

**O, Canada**

**A _West Wing_ Story**

**Part Two: Only for a Little While**

POV:Abbey

Spoilers: DIW

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, but I enjoy playing with them.

"Okay."

He had said, "Okay," and, even though she had been terrified he would explode and cause a scene, Abbey Bartlet was still a little disappointed that her husband had given in to her decision so quietly. Nevertheless, it was obvious he had been no less than stunned. Even now, as the last notes of the Canadian national anthem echoed against the marble columns, he remained uncharacteristically quiet. Well, what was done was done, and, having already determined her fate as she imbibed with C.J., Amy, and Donna, she decided to take total control of the rest of her evening.

As the band struck up a familiar jazz tune, Leo leaned behind her to speak with the President. She didn't care what he was telling him, even if it was some major crisis; she grabbed her husband's hand and tugged. Immediately, he turned to face her and she put all of their years of silent communication into her expression. To her satisfaction, he whispered a quick, "Later," to Leo and gave her a short nod, shifting his hand in hers so that their fingers entwined. He started to speak, but she did not even allow him a question. Instead, she headed toward the South Lawn and the promise of a darker, cooler, and more private setting. Perceiving her intentions, he fell into step right behind her, waving off the secret service man that tried to tail them.

"Hang back a little, Hank," he advised, and Abbey saw the taller man frown, partly, she figured, because his name was actually Howard, but he followed the orders of his Commander-in-Chief just the same.

In a minute, they were alone, or at least as alone as they could be. Hands still clasped together, they strolled onto the lush grass and enjoyed the glow of the Washington Monument as it pierced the sky above the spreading trees before them.

His mood had lightened, she could tell, and she strove to keep it moving in that direction. "I just wanted to let you know I admire your self-control." At his raised brow, she explained, "John."

"Ah."

"He can be quite a character." In truth, she had fought fiercely to keep from turning red at the blatantly sexual remarks made by the incorrigible British Ambassador.

Jed leaned closer to his wife, leering. In a credible imitation of Lord John Marbury, including grabby hand gestures, he asked, "Abigail, may I grasp your breasts?"

She smiled, relieved that he was playing her game. "You may kiss my cheek."

His face fell. "I was hoping for a little more, especially after all the trouble I went to tonight. I know how you loved the fanfare, and all."

Her voice lowered and took on that seductive quality that never failed to arouse him immediately, as if that were difficult. "How do you know which cheek I meant?"

Fire flamed in his eyes. "Ah. That sounds more like what I had in mind."

The rich harmony of the band floated across the lawn toward them, creating their own private dance floor. He drew her to him and they moved easily to the music, years of being in each other's arms behind each step. They made the transition, if only for a little while, from President and First Lady to private couple.

"You know," he murmured into her hair, "you were wrong."

"Again?" Her voice was teasing.

"What Marbury said about your magnificent breasts being what first attracted me to you."

"Are you saying my breasts aren't magnificent or you're not attracted to them?"

She felt the deep chuckle vibrate in his chest. "I think you know me well enough that I don't have to refute either of those impossibilities." In emphasis, he moved his hand up the shimmering gold gown and barely touched the swell of her right breast. She closed her eyes at the pleasure.

"Umm," she groaned softly. "What was it, then?"

"Hmm?" He seemed to have lost his train of thought as his hand slid forward to caress her more intimately.

"What first attracted you to me?"

He looked down at her generous cleavage and grinned. "Okay, maybe it was your magnificent breasts."

"Jed!" She slapped at him playfully.

"Your eyes."

"What?"

"You have the most gorgeous eyes, Abbey. And that's what I first noticed." She felt her heart leap and her breath catch and had a flash of that ancient schoolgirl feeling when she had first laid eyes on a young, cocky, handsome, wild-haired theology major. Suddenly, raw desire surged through her.

He grinned, then. "Of course, the second thing was, or maybe second and third things were, indeed, your magnificent breasts. I was a just theology student, after all; I wasn't dead."

She moved her hand up his arm and ran her fingers through his hair, dislodging his earlier efforts to keep it in place. Neat hair was appropriate for the President of the United States, but now she wanted a little more of that college student. Pressing her breasts against him, she also arched her hips into his to gage his mood and was not disappointed.

"You're still definitely not dead," she noted, and he groaned softly. She reminded herself that the theology major had turned into a theology minor when the would-be priest had been overwhelmed by a libidinous economist who had found his physical and emotional life partner in a sexy, smart future medical student.

They danced on silently for a while, then she wondered, "You think anyone will miss us?"

"Nah." He didn't bother looking down to answer. "Why would you think that?"

"Oh, I don't know. The guest of honor and her husband, the President of the United States. Sure, you're right. Who'd be looking for us?"

She felt him smile into her hair and she closed her eyes, stepping unconsciously back into the dance. They moved gently against each other in time with the soft music, the only couple on their soft, green stage.

After several minutes of silence, his chest expanded in a sigh against her. She knew it was coming, even though she had tried to delay it. "Abbey…"

"No."

This time he did pull away and look at her. "We've got to talk about this. I shouldn't have said—"

She shook her head in a move that spoke of determination and decision. "My mind's made up. It's the best solution."

They stopped dancing altogether and Jed took her hands in both of his. "Abbey, you can't—"

"I said my mind's made up."

He obviously wasn't ready to give in yet, because he set his jaw in that way that meant he was preparing for battle. "I know I said they can't take medical school away from you, Abbey. But if you let them rule, it will only be for a year, not for the duration, assuming I get re-elected. You can practice again in just a few months."

"Jed," she said, suddenly weary. "I haven't practiced in three years, not really." This was not going as she wanted. Lifting her shoulders, she made an attempt to be positive again. "I am a doctor. I will always be a doctor, but, for a while, at least, I'm going to concentrate on being First Lady. That's a rather significant job in itself."

"Abbey—"

Her mouth covered his suddenly, effectively destroying whatever argument he had planned. It had been an impulse to stop the conversation, to distract him. For a moment, he resisted, but then she felt him give up, if only temporarily, and lose himself in the kiss. When she withdrew, she saw that he was still determined. Now, however, his determination focused on something entirely different, and she became aware that control of the situation had shifted from her to him.

As his eyes held hers, he untangled their fingers and grasped her shoulders, pulling her into a hard, passionate embrace, his tongue pushing into her mouth, his lips so firm against hers he was almost bruising. Her legs trembled with the flush of yearning that rushed through her and any coherent thoughts she might have tried to command shattered into a groan with the onslaught of his sexual heat. Her heart hammered against her chest and she felt her arms clutch around his neck, pulling his body to her so that they were chest to chest and hips to hips. She felt the delicious, familiar sensation of his erection pulsing between them, felt the warmth spread through her groin with the unrealistic anticipation of shedding their restrictive clothes and lying beneath him on the soft grass.

"Jed—"

"Uh uh," he murmured against her mouth and she couldn't muster any will to fight against what she wanted so badly.

Her breathing grew faster and heavier and she was vaguely aware that Jed had shifted so that his right thigh pushed into the golden folds of the gown between her legs. His hands played over her body, unerringly seeking each sensitive spot, each responsive nerve. Her blood pumped hard, her breath came faster, and she felt herself racing past any point of reasonable thought. Moving against him, she lost control and cried out as the sudden burst of pleasure carried her over the edge. When she finally took a slower breath, she realized that she was slumped in his arms, partly resting on the thigh that he still held between her legs. Looking up, she saw him watching her, the expression on his face a mixture of love, empathy, and desire. How had she lost control so quickly?

Straightening and backing away slightly, she cleared her throat, a little embarrassed, and pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. "Wow," she murmured, looking back at him almost shyly.

His face was flushed, too, and he lifted his hand to caress her cheek softly. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse. "How's your birthday been so far?"

"Umm," she hummed in satisfied pleasure. "It's getting better and better."

"Abbey, are you sure about this?"

She frowned, momentarily confused. Sure about what? What you just did? Hell yes. But she knew he had abruptly changed the subject. What was he talking about? Then, she comprehended and nodded, still catching her breath. "It's the right thing to do, Jed. Didn't you tell Leo the same thing about the censure?"

She saw in his face that she had made a point and decided to press on. "Amy said tonight that you took the censure standing up and she was proud to have voted for you."

Tears burned her eyes at the astonishment that crossed his features. She saw him swallow hard, too, before he regained control, but still he only nodded. She continued. "Can I do any less? Can I do any less than the man I love most in the world?"

He moved his hand to her shoulder. "Abbey—"

"Can I do any less than the most courageous person I know?"

This time, he lost his control completely and she gave up holding her own tears back as his flowed freely down his face. This was twice in one night she had seen him totally nonplussed. A notation for the history books. "Josiah Bartlet, you are a good man. The best man I know. And what you did, regardless of whether or not you made a mistake earlier, took incredible courage. I was too damn mad at you for a while to mention it, but – I'm telling you now."

They stared at each other for a long moment, unable to talk anymore, not needing to talk anymore. Then, he stepped forward and embraced her, pulling her head against his shoulder, letting the tears fall into her hair. He held her, one hand cradling her head, the other wrapped tightly around her waist. She stretched her arms across his back and settled into the strength and security that he offered. It all came down to this. She loved him, just as much as she did 34 years ago when they stood together and pledged their lives to each other. And he loved her, and that was all that mattered in this moment.

"Sir?"

The voice was soft, courteous, but insistent, all the same. Abbey responded to it first, moving slightly to whisper in his ear. "Jed."

He didn't move, didn't flinch at all. She tried again. "Jed?"

She felt him sigh, but he still did not release his hold on her. "Hmm?"

Her back was to the voice, so she couldn't see who it was. "Someone's calling." She wasn't sure his eyes were open.

"Who cares?"

"Mister President?" This time the voice was a little louder, a little more forceful, and clearly recognizable. Abbey knew they could not ignore it for much longer.

"Jed," she prompted.

He stirred then, and dropped his hand from her head, but kept the other arm around her. Clearing his throat, he answered, a little gruffly, "Yeah?"

Obviously reluctant to intrude more than necessary, the Chief of Staff hovered back toward the mansion, illuminated by lights that spotlighted the famous house, but that didn't quite reach to the point where she and Jed stood. Abbey didn't know if he could see her wipe the President's face dry before they turned to him.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but—"

Jed had recovered enough to sound like himself again. "It's okay, Leo. What's up?"

"Well, folks are noticing that…that is, they are wondering where – Are you guys coming back to the party any time soon? You haven't officially – excused yourselves for the evening, and some of the guests are standing on protocol."

"What?" Abbey asked, confused.

"They won't leave until you officially call it a night."

His emotions back in check, Jed stepped closer to the light. "Is everyone still there?"

"Nah. Those who know you well took off as soon as you two disappeared."

Feeling more confident, Abbey moved away from her husband and patted Leo on the arm. "I told him they would miss us," she laughed. "We'll be in to say goodnight, Leo." Then, she leaned closer and said softly, "Give us a minute."

Glancing back toward his best friend, the Chief of Staff smiled and nodded, then headed back toward the mansion. As Abbey watched him disappear, she felt Jed's arms slip around her waist, and she leaned back against his crisp tuxedo shirt. For a long moment, they stood under the stars, a private couple, taking a moment to connect, to share a little intimacy, to touch both minds and bodies.

"You ready to go back in?" she asked.

"Yeah – well – except I think I got shafted," he mused, humor back in his voice.

Abbey laughed, a deep-throated sound that she knew he liked. "Oh, no, Jethro. That's my line." She turned in his arms and placed her hands on his chest. "I will, however, admit that I owe you. But first we have to say goodnight to our friends."

"Didn't you hear Leo? Our friends are already gone. It's just our enemies who are left. Can't we skip that and get right to the part where I collect on your debt?"

"The wait will be worth it," she promised, leaning into him. "I include interest."

He drew in a deep breath and pulled her hips against his, and she groaned. Oh yes, the wait would indeed be worth it. "Besides," he whispered in his most seductive voice, "I haven't finished giving you your birthday present."

Okay. "Come on," she urged, grabbing his hand and pulling him across the grass. "Let's get this show on the road."

As they moved from the shadows of the lawn into the glaring lights of the mansion, they once again completed the transition from private couple to President and First Lady, but only for a little while, Abbey decided. Only for a little while.


	3. Right to Privacy

**_O, Canada_ Series**

Author: Amanda (MAHC)

Title: O, Canada: Right to Privacy

Characters: Charlie, but also Jed and Abbey

Category: Drama/Romance

Pairing: Jed/Abbey

Rating: PG-13

Author's Notes: This is a post-ep for "Dead Irish Writers," and gives a more in-depth view of the events during and after Abbey's birthday party. It also deals with how Jed and Abbey face her decision to relinquish her medical license.

O, Canada 

**A _West Wing_ Story**

**Part Three: Right to Privacy**

POV:Charlie

Spoilers: DIW, AISTTC, WC

Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were.

"Charlie?"

The young man lifted his head and stared blurry-eyed at the figure before him. At first, he wondered what on earth Leo McGarry was doing at his house this time of night. Then, his heart kicked the inside of his chest when he realized that if Leo had come to his house, whatever information he had must be critical. It must be a stupendous crisis or tragedy. Oh, God. Please don't let it be the President.

"Sir?" he managed, and tried to slip from his bed without falling. Something didn't work right. What was Leo doing in his bedroom, anyway? Who had let him in? Where was Deena?

"What are you doing here?"

"Huh?" Wasn't that his line? He blinked once, then again, until his eyes managed to focus, although not without some difficulty. Things began to make a lot more sense. He wasn't at home at all. Instead of resting comfortably in his own bed, he was slumped over his desk outside the Oval Office. He noted ruefully that a little puddle of drool had formed on the polished wooden surface.

Leo stepped closer. "I said, 'What are you doing here?' The party's over. Why didn't you go home?"

"Umm." The party? Oh yes. The First Lady's birthday party. Was that last night? Was it still night? Balancing the fuzz of sleep with the sharp pain of consciousness, Charlie straightened his stiff back and pushed up to stand. He was a bit surprised that he managed it.

"Charlie," Leo said again, "it's three in the morning. You should be home."

Three in the morning? "Yeah." A glance at the rest of his desk reminded him why he wasn't home. "Deena's visiting her grandparents for a few days," he explained, using the time to try to clear his brain. "I took the opportunity to use some of the President's references for a paper I had to write. It's due day after tomorrow, and, well…I haven't had much time." He placed his hands against the muscles on both sides of his lower spine and arched backwards, listening with satisfaction to the popping of vertebrae that resulted.

"Okay." Leo stared at him thoughtfully for a second or two, then Charlie took note of the gleam that suddenly appeared in the Chief of Staff's eye and became instantly suspicious that he was about to wish he had gone home long ago.

"Since you're here, I need to you to do something for me."

"Okay." The word was drawn out a little longer than normal.

"I need the President."

"Oh, no."

"Charlie—"

"No. You know where he is. Last time he was where he is, I was the one who had to interrupt." Now his brain was painfully alert. "It's someone else's opportunity to ruin his – family time."

He thought Leo almost smiled, but the Chief of Staff remained persistent. "He expects it. He's the President. There are always interruptions. He won't be mad."

Charlie stared at his boss's friend and adviser. Leo was either deranged or evil; he wasn't sure which. "Won't be mad? Last time this happened, the First Lady had been away for a week. One hour after she got back, Ms. McNally made me go get him over an explosion near the embassy in Congo. It turned out to be an accident, which only made it worse for me."

"He didn't blame you."

"No? Then why did I get a forty-five minute lecture on the Right to Privacy Act, which, by the way, doesn't really have anything to do with interrupting a man while he's – well – anyway, it wasn't really relevant."

"I need the President. Security matter."

"He doesn't believe in the phrase, 'Don't kill the messenger.' The messenger is just the first in a long line of people he wants to kill. I'll simply start the carnage."

"I need the President."

"There was also that time outside the Oval, when I was simply delivering the message that the First Lady couldn't…that she had to leave early and wouldn't… He threatened to send me to the Yukon!"

"I need the President, Charlie. Get him for me."

"Damn." He didn't dare ask why Leo just didn't get him himself. He knew exactly why.

Wiping his face with the back of a rumpled sleeve, the President's bodyman gritted his teeth. In his mind, Tennyson vied with _Star Trek_ for an appropriate quote: All in the valley of death rode the six hundred – or the one. Leo seemed perfectly content to wait for him there.

For a moment, as he trudged slowly toward the residence, he really felt more sorry for the President than he did for himself. He knew how rare it was for Jed Bartlet to find private moments with his wife, and he knew that the First Lady also looked forward to their time alone. He had witnessed more than his share of blatantly sexual teasing between them, and had also been privy to moments of frustration when planned rendezvous collapsed under the weight of duty and responsibility. But then he envisioned what the President's reaction would be when he was forced to stop his – activity – and answer the knocks on his bedroom door. Okay, he was back to feeling sorry for himself.

Truthfully, he had never seen a relationship like the President and Mrs. Bartlet had. In three years he had realized that they were rather amazing people: both attractive, both ambitious, both funny, both aware of their power but careful not to abuse it, both very smart. When they were together, their conversation seemed to soar above the normal plane most couples communicate on. They discussed theology and philosophy, yet they could also relate on baser levels, deftly holding lively conversations on just about any topic.

Not that their relationship was always rosy. On the contrary, it was sometimes tumultuous, wild, and downright loud. Charlie grimaced at the memory of some of the words that had snapped between them. Their fights were passionate, but so was everything else. He had heard the President called "jackass" as many times as he had heard him called "pumpkin." And he was amazed at the nicknames that Jed Bartlet had for his wife.

In fact, Charlie heard much more than he ever wanted to hear. The President seemed to be comfortable enough with him to say just about anything in front of him. He thought about that morning several weeks ago when the President and First Lady returned from church. As Charlie was enjoying their stimulating debate about the homily on Ephesians 5:21, the President made a comment that indicated if Mrs. Bartlet wanted to be washed with water, he was up for it. Whoa. Charlie wasn't sure if the pun was intended or not. Fortunately, the First Lady had moved on and not paid any attention to him at all. Of course, she was certainly not completely innocent, herself.

His most vivid memory occurred over a year ago. Charlie still felt the blood rush to his cheeks as he recalled the First Lady strolling up to him outside the Oval Office and reeling off a series of statistics on the President's health three months after Rosslyn. She ended, smugly, with the casual comment, "So we can have sex now." After almost dropping his notepad, he had managed, to his own surprise, to make a witty comment, which she seemed to appreciate. The rumors and innuendos that had been sprouting on the grapevine about the First Couple's active sex life had just reached full bloom.

Later that same day, even though he found the incident amusing, Charlie had totally sympathized with the devastation evident on the President's face and body when he had to inform him that Mrs. Bartlet had already left for her speech and there would be no "special meeting of the government," at least not at that time. Bartlet had looked so pained that Charlie almost did not enjoy the moment. Not that he wanted the President to be frustrated, not at all. But it was funny, even though his boss didn't seem to hold the same opinion. He could tell the next day, however, that sometime that evening or the next morning, a very productive meeting had taken place. He got a reprieve from his assignment to the Yukon.

Recently, the President had taken to singing, sometimes to someone, sometimes to no one in particular. And he wasn't bad, Charlie noted, except that he frequently disregarded the lyricists' creations and made up his own words. He was particularly fond of songs that spoke of love or making love. Maybe it was just subconscious, but he consistently chose them.

And tonight, Charlie could tell something was up. He wasn't sure exactly what, although he had heard enough to have an idea, but he had watched the President watch her. He had listened while his boss struggled over just the right toast to make, had heard the simple answer to his question about whether he loved his wife: "Very deeply." After the toast and the singing, they had disappeared for a while, but Charlie knew where they were, knew that Howard was standing guard, knew that they needed that time alone, that it was precious to them. He knew when they made their hasty good nights where they were headed, and now he dreaded his role in marring their evening – almost as much as he dreaded the probable pain the President was going to inflict on his body when he –

Charlie realized with a start that he was almost to the doors of the bedroom. Please, he thought, please just be asleep. That would be bad enough. He had borne his share of waking the President, no mean feat. But there were certainly worse fates, and as he neared the doors, the proximity of the secret service agents told him he was about to meet one. They had moved away from the door that led directly into the bedroom. Not a good sign.

"Hi, guys," he greeted, hopefully in a casual manner.

They nodded curtly, but otherwise did not comment.

"Um, you think the President is…busy?"

The guard on the right broke his stern expression only for a moment. Charlie saw a distinct smirk flash across his face before the mask reasserted itself. The agent to the left stared straight ahead, but the eyes definitely twinkled. Oh hell.

Mustering what little courage he could find, he approached the carved door and prepared to knock, tightening his eyes instantly when he heard what he had expected, but been afraid to hear. Definite rhythmic squeaks from the poster bed created a backdrop for the muted voices. The words were indiscernible, but their tones were unmistakable. He could hear the President groan softly and Abbey's voice answer with a drawn out gasp.

Oh man, why didn't I just go home?

The beat increased steadily. Now the voices followed in volume, and Charlie tried to decide whether he should step back, go ahead and knock, or wait until they finished, then knock. Depended on how long— Oh man! The First Lady's voice was now way too easy to hear, along with what she was encouraging the President to do. Charlie wiped the sweat from his upper lip as her cries of pleasure rose above all other sounds. Obviously, the President was doing his job well. Again, Charlie fought for a decision. Before he was forced to make a choice, however, the dilemma was solved for him. He heard the President gasp out his wife's name; then the bumping slowed and eventually stopped, and their voices grew quiet, gentle.

Okay. Thank you. He'd just wait a minute to give them a chance to…catch their breaths.

Counting mentally to 180, he braced himself and stepped forward, lightly rapping his knuckles on the door. No sounds came from the room. Damn. He knocked again, more forcefully. Still only silence. Desperate that he not be the one to open the door, he knocked once more, calling for the President at the same time. This time, he easily heard the fierce curse from inside and tried not to grimace too much as the door was jerked open.

"What the hell do you want?"

President Josiah Bartlet stood in the doorway, dressed only in loose pajama bottoms, chest flushed and damp, hair falling into eyes that flashed fury at whoever had been idiotic enough to interrupt him. Charlie would have been only mildly surprised to watch him burst into flames at that very moment. Despite himself, the aide flinched, avoiding a backwards step only through concentrated effort. Catching an inadvertent glimpse of the First Lady in the background, snuggling hastily under the bed covers, Charlie cleared his throat and attempted to fulfill his sacrificial mission. I only regret that I have but one life to lose –

Okay. Breathe. Be calm. Deliver the message and retreat with all due haste.

"Mister President?" Somehow his voice managed not to break too much.

Bartlet just stared at him.

"Sir, Mister McGarry needs you."

More staring.

"There's a – situation, and Mister McGarry sent me to get you."

By now, those fiery eyes had completely burned twin holes right through the middle of Charlie's forehead.

"Sir—"

"I heard you." The words were spoken with such unexpected softness that Charlie didn't realize for a second or two that a response had been given. Finally, the President sighed and lifted his chin so that his eyes looked at the ceiling above them. "Where is he?"

Thank you, God. Thank you. "Oval."

Now, he looked back at Charlie and rubbed at his eyes. "What time is it?"

"It's 3:23 a.m., Mister President." Charlie answered with more confidence, now relatively certain of his survival.

Some of the indignation had dropped away and Bartlet let his shoulders slump in resignation. "Holy Mother," he muttered. "Okay. Tell Leo I'll be there in – " He glanced back quickly ruefully, Charlie thought – at the figure in his bed. " – ten minutes."

The younger man heard a muffled response from within the chamber, and, although he could not distinguish the words, he easily comprehended the sentiment. He didn't blame the First Lady, either. It seemed that she and her husband were being interrupted with irritating frequency lately. At least they got to finish this time. Or he hoped so. He really did.

He turned away from the scene of intrusion, relief flooding him that his orders had been carried out with minimal loss of life and limb. Clear sky stretched in front of him in the form of the hallway. Just about there. One more step—

"Charlie?"

Oh God. He had almost made it. Just another few seconds and he would have been free. "Sir?" Turning, he saw that the President had apparently poked his head back out the door as the question occurred to him.

"What the hell are you still doing here?"

Should he go into the whole complicated story, or just say he stayed late at the party? Which would get him out of there faster? As he opened his mouth, however, the President frowned at him and stopped his attempt to explain.

"I don't want to see you before ten a.m. tomorrow. Do you understand?"

Now, Charlie smiled, finally, and nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, Mister President." Their eyes met for a moment and Charlie felt again the swell of affection he had for Jed Bartlet, a man who came as close to being a father to him as he had ever really known.

"I'll tell Mister McGarry you'll be there in – twenty minutes." He grinned, first at the surprise that crossed the President's face, then at the sheepish gratitude he saw there. Bartlet acknowledged their small conspiracy with a nod before he eased the door shut, and Charlie hoped that Leo's situation could wait a little longer. Hurrying past the secret service guards, he tried to put as much distance between himself and the door before he was an auditory witness to any other activities in the Presidential bedroom that night.

When he strolled back into the office area outside the Oval, Charlie met Leo, who greeted him rather anxiously.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Sure," Charlie assured him. "He's on his way. Well, in about twenty minutes, anyway."

"Twenty?"

"I tried, sir, but that's the best I could do." Better to let the President take the wrap on that one. He hadn't seemed to mind the ten-minute gift, after all.

Leo sighed. "Okay. That'll be okay." He stared a little longer at Charlie, as if searching for battle scars and seemed almost disappointed when he found no evidence of physical injury. Finally, he gave up and ordered Charlie home. "And don't come back before ten tomorrow."

Grinning, Charlie nodded as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. "Good night, Mister McGarry," he said, passing Leo, the lateness of the evening beginning to weigh down on his brain again.

"Night, Charlie. Oh, Charlie?"

"Sir?"

"He understands."

"Sir?"

"The President. He knows it's not your fault."

"Right." As he slipped through the White House gates toward his car, Charlie still figured it wouldn't be a bad idea to bone up on the Right to Privacy Act, just to defend himself.


	4. Battered But Not Diminished

**_O, Canada_ Series**

Author: Amanda (MAHC)

Title: O, Canada: Champagne Cork

Character: Jed and Abbey

Category: Drama/Romance

Pairing: Jed/Abbey

Rating: Mature

Author's Notes: This is a post-ep for "Dead Irish Writers," and gives a more in-depth view of the events during and after Abbey's birthday party. It also deals with how Jed and Abbey face her decision to relinquish her medical license.

**O, Canada**

**A _West Wing_ Story**

**Part Four: Battered, But Not Diminished**

POV:Abbey

Spoilers: DIW

Disclaimer: I did not create these characters, unfortunately.

"Abbey?"

Abbey who? She was vaguely aware of a low voice swimming through the murky depths of her consciousness. A voice that was recognized around the world, a voice that had commanded powerful forces and inspired a nation, a voice that had made her furious, a voice that had brought tears of laughter to her eyes, and tears of sorrow, a voice that had declared unconditional love, a voice that had driven her mad with seductive, sensually whispered endearments.

"Abbey?" A voice that was persistent.

Abbey who? Oh, me. Okay. She tried to connect her brain and mouth to answer the voice, but all she managed was a mumbled, "Mmm?"

The voice responded anyway. "Happy birthday."

Now she smiled against the chest that housed the lungs that fed the voice. His voice. She had not moved from that position since the incredible explosion that had left her hopelessly melted on top of him. He had promised her the rest of her birthday present, and he made good on his promise – real good. In fact, she was only now managing to get her breathing back under control after he had literally taken it away.

"Mmm." She focused on taking note of the sensations that touched her: the warmth of his strong body beneath her, the delicious tingle of goose pimples rising on her back and hips as his hands caressed lightly, the moistness between them, evidence of their passion. She let her mind wander back to the previous hour – or was it two – they had spent after making a hasty and obvious retreat from the party.

Escaping from her own birthday celebration had proved a little more difficult than she had hoped, and when they finally slid desperately out into the hall, after wishing the Ambassadors of Belgium, Peru, and Something-or-other-ikstan goodnight, Abbey caught C.J.'s eye. The Press Secretary, now minus shoes and in Toby's arms on the dance floor, smiled and tossed her a knowing salute. Abbey flushed, but inclined her head in acknowledgement and returned her friend's grin. She and Jed were trying hard to be dignified in their stroll through the White House, but she sensed eagerness in his step, and completely admitted to it in hers.

"You okay?" His voice drew her back to him. He obviously tried to sound casual, but she saw the unmasked concern in his eyes.

"Sure." Okay. Don't go there again. Decision made. Consequences accepted. Change the subject, Abbey. "Do you think I should have let John Marbury grasp my breasts?" she asked, disarmingly innocent.

That worked. Too bad Allen Funt wasn't there with his Candid Camera to capture the perfect double take. But he recovered and gamely fell into the banter.

"Well, it would have been good for Anglo-American relations. I'll bet he'd have forgotten all about Brendan McGann."

She grinned, relieved to see him abandoning the subject of her license. "So would you."

Jed laughed. "So would the rest of the world after I punched him in the nose."

Amused, but also a little pleased by the hint of honest emotion behind his words, Abbey leaned into him and asked, in a stage whisper, "Would you like to grasp my breasts?" She smirked as she saw the widened eyes of the secret service agent they passed.

A brow lifted. "I dunno. What's in it for me?"

"A night of unbelievable ecstasy."

He was not quite successful at suppressing the burst of desire that appeared in his eyes. Pursing his lips and managing an unconvincing air of disinterest, he shrugged and said, "Gee, I kind of thought I'd watch women's lacrosse on ESPN Two, but if you really want me to – "

The two secret service agents outside their door straightened a little more, if that was possible, as they neared. Jed turned the knob and guided her in, his hand warm against the small of her back. She chuckled as she heard his orders.

"Absolutely no interruptions, guys. Unless it's—"

The guard with the most solemn expression finished for him, "Grace Kelly or Marilyn Monroe, Sir."

"Right."

Abbey shook her head. He'd always had a thing for glamorous movie stars of the '50s. She figured it was because his first pre-pubescent sexual interest blossomed in that decade. But since both of those women were dead, she felt relatively secure for the evening. Then, the door closed and they were alone.

"So," Jed said, tossing dinner jacket and unraveled tie on a chair, "what do you want to—"

Before he could finish, Abbey had grabbed his shirtfront, pulling the tails out of his waistband, and jerked him against her, her mouth hard on his. She didn't think she could wait, not after the frustrating delay at the party. But he apparently had other plans.

"Uh uh," he said, wagging a finger at her and easing her body away from him. "Your birthday present, remember? I wasn't finished."

The promise in his eyes sent a flame straight to the pit of her belly and she knew that she trembled as he turned her in his arms and kissed her gently, then began undressing her with torturous deliberateness. He moved slowly, caressing a shoulder, then a thigh, then behind a knee, ignoring her pleadings for more. Finally, his mouth touched her, softly at first, then with increasing pressure that set off tingling electric pulses. He brought her to the edge again and again, but refused to let her to go over. Sometime along the way, she managed to finish tearing off his shirt and rid him of his pants and boxers, bringing another almost overwhelming wave as he pulsed hard against her. When she drew too close, he paused, letting her tight muscles relax enough to keep her just below the breaking point. Throbbing nerves screamed for him to let her go, but he toyed with her.

"Holy Mother, Jed Bartlet," she gasped, neck arched back onto the pillow. "You're a sadist."

He paused to grin up at her. "Oh no, Hot Pants, that's for later."

Dodging her feeble swat, he returned to his mission. Just when she was contemplating if this constituted spousal abuse, he stopped and slid up the bed, lying on his back. Taking her in his arms, he lifted her so that she straddled him, and slowly eased into her. Oh God! That was what she had been waiting for. The sensation raced along her ravaged nerves and launched her into a dizzy ascent that could only end in orgasmic fireworks. Still teasing her unmercifully, he pumped hard, then slowed and held back. Sweat glistened on both their faces as she arched above him. She tried to thrust down, to relieve the almost unbearable ache in her loins, but he wouldn't let her. He placed his hand on her stomach and smiled up at her, and she gritted her teeth, fighting for control. It wasn't easy. Again and again she knew she could not hang on and gasped his name, begging for release, but he controlled her with his hands, his voice.

"Jed!"

His name was torn from her throat as she reached the absolute limit of her endurance. As many years as they had been lovers, he knew that cry, and she knew he would hear the desperation in her voice. Sure enough, he pushed up hard, thrusting deep inside her and she cried out, trembling at the magnificent agony he had caused.

"All right, Babe," he coaxed, his own voice hoarse. "Here we go."

She gritted her teeth and groaned, feeling him push into her several more times before her tortured nerves realized they could let go. As the first wave of release washed over her, her breath caught and tears welled at her eyes. She bucked against him over and over, hands clawing at his hips, forcing her eyes open to watch his face contort with the pleasure she was giving him.

"Abbey!" His choked cry echoed her own, ragged with emotion.

He came then, hard bursts inside her again and again, until they froze with the final, nearly unbearable spasms. As the amazing sensation began to fade, she felt a pang of disappointment that it had to end, but reassured herself that their night was not over by any means. After all, she still owed him, now even more. Treasuring the feel of him inside her, Abbey leaned forward, kissing his lips softly and resting her head on his chest.

"— present?" The voice drew her back to the present.

"Huh?"

"I said, 'Did you like your present?'" This was more of a rhetorical question, she figured. Her reaction to his gift had been loudly obvious.

Finally, she summoned enough energy to respond in English. "Eh. It'll do in a pinch. They were out of nail kits at Wal-Mart, huh?"

A deep rumble in his chest indicated his amusement. "Yeah. And I knew this wouldn't really be enough."

What? The sound of paper crinkling was loud at her ear and she turned to see him holding a neatly wrapped rectangle about the size of a medical chart against the pillow. It caught a bit of light in the semi-darkness and she saw silvery reflection.

Just as she tried to reach for it, a tap on the door knifed into their peace. Oh no! Please not now, she pleaded silently. Not now when I have him to myself. Maybe the secret service agents would force the interloper away, or shoot him or something. They could do that, couldn't they? Abbey thought of them standing on the other side of the threshold, and the fresh memory of the sounds she knew she and Jed had made brought a hot flush to her cheeks. She looked down at her husband, who still held the package. He shook his head. Don't answer.

The intruder knocked again, a little harder this time. "Jed – " she whispered.

"Pizza man," he murmured. "Don't answer it."

Okay. Sure. She took the time to enjoy the feel of his body beneath hers, his chest hair tickling her breasts, his right hand rubbing up and down her back and hip. It would only last a moment longer. Somewhere within her logical brain cells she knew he would have to answer the door. But now, she wanted him for just a few more—

This knock was accompanied by an almost pleading entreaty. "Mister President?"

Charlie. Despite the irritation at his untimely interruption, Abbey felt an instant sympathy for unfortunate young man.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" Jed, forced to abandon his fantasy about the Pizza man, spat out the curses, sliding her off him and onto the bed, and snatched up a pair of pajama bottoms, pulling them on as he flung open the door and greeted the hapless assistant with a less-than-courteous "What the hell do you want?"

Letting her eyes enjoy the view of Jed's broad back, Abbey listened, sympathetic both to Charlie and to her husband, whose sharp anger dissipated with his messenger's information. A situation. Of course. What else would it be? Even on her birthday, or birthday event, they couldn't have an entire night uninterrupted.

As they spoke in sotto voice at the door, she ran her hands over the smooth, silvery gift paper and snatched a nail through one of the side folds. The wrapping ripped easily and she held up the present, trying to see what it was by the pale outside light. As Jed opened the door a little wider, a beam fell across the bed and she found herself looking at an impossibly young couple, grinning, their arms around each other. The girl wore the robes of a medical school graduate and the boy was so handsome in that navy suit she had given him for their first anniversary. Even through the two-dimensional photograph, their love was visible, illuminating the entire scene. She had not seen the picture in years, and the last time it had been on a table at her parents' house. The tears that suddenly welled up in her eyes stung and reminded her how much had happened since that day of innocent elation. She understood, too, why he gave this to her now. On this night. Before the next morning. Oh, Jed. What a sweet jackass you can be sometimes.

When he glanced back at her and told Charlie to give him ten minutes, she placed the picture on the bedside table, pulled the covers up around her and cursed, a little more loudly than she had intended. Charlie probably heard that. Well – good. Even though Charlie was just the messenger, Abbey needed someone to be aware of her displeasure at the disruption. She hadn't gotten to pay Jed back for the South Lawn, and she had promised him interest to boot, not that he hadn't already enjoyed himself immensely. No doubt about that, but she wanted to treat him, to tease him, to give back as good as she got. Now – Damn it.

Vaguely, she heard something about twenty minutes and then Jed was under the covers with her again, his pajamas discarded, his lips on her neck, her breasts, her stomach and lower. Oh, no. Laying the frame on the side table, she braced herself to resist his touch that had already begun to make her skin tingle, pushing him off, catching his eyes and giving him her best seductive stare.

"My turn, Jethro," she said, voice husky. "You forget I owe you – with interest."

"We only have twenty minutes," he reminded her, bending to nuzzle her neck despite her protests.

"On our wedding night you only needed ten."

He blushed and grinned, raising his head to look at her. "Hey, I was going to be a priest. You know celibacy is tough on a guy. Besides, I've practiced since then."

"That you have." This was an understatement. It hadn't taken him long at all to become a skilled lover and she knew he could last all night, if necessary. But they really didn't have much time now, and she was determined to knock his socks off before he had to leave.

"Remember that debt I owe?"

"Um hmm." His mouth was busy nibbling at her ear.

Instead of answering verbally, she pushed him back on the bed and leaned over him, licking his chest with sensuous swirls, then slowly sliding down his body. When she reached her destination, she teased, caressing all around him, lingering on his upper thighs and just below his navel, but studiously avoiding the straining erection. Maybe they did have enough time, if he cooperated and didn't practice self-control. As if in answer, his hips rose from the bed hungrily, trying to find her, but she pulled back. His groan was agonized, desperate, and utterly enjoyable, and she smiled, happy that she could bring him this pleasure, too. Finally, she checked the clock, glaring irritatingly from the bedside table. Damn. Twelve minutes had already passed. Okay. No more messing around.

She took him in abruptly, hands touching him intimately, mouth drawing him deeper. He gasped, thrust upwards and cried out her name again, allowing himself to be taken quickly toward climax. She felt the pressure build in him, heard his breathing quicken, saw his mouth open in a silent groan. In a moment he was swept away, holding her head in place with gentle, but insistent hands as he rocked back and forth. When he finally sprawled back onto the bed, hands dropping to his sides, she propped on one elbow and looked at him. Looked at his strong body, his handsome face, his blue eyes, his wild hair. The love she felt for this man, even after so many years, grabbed at her heart and squeezed.

Oh, Jed, she thought, what a good man you are. I need to tell you that more often. Her hand pushed the hair back over his eyes and he shifted to meet her gaze.

"You like your presents?" he murmured.

"All of them." She knew he would realize she was including the photograph.

"Did you read it?"

Huh? "Read what?"

Now, he smiled and his eyes closed. Reaching to the table, he lifted the picture and handed it back to her. In the dark, she couldn't make out the newly handwritten inscription, but she didn't need to. He quoted it to her from memory.

"'She was there, in the full vigor of her personality, battered but not diminished.' It's by Willa Cather, from _My Antonia_."

She couldn't speak, couldn't manage a response at all, the swell at her throat threatened to cut off her breath. So she ducked her head and tried to hide against his shoulder, but he shifted and took her face in his square hands.

"I don't know if I've ever told you that I am so proud of you, Abbey."

She felt the quiver at her lip, just as she had at the party when he had professed his love. He held on to her, his thumbs moving just barely to caresses her cheeks.

"They can't take away from you what you did, what you have done, who you are. It doesn't matter what happens later today, or tomorrow, or next week," he said, his voice deep and open. "You are Abigail Bartlet, battered – " – now the voice faltered – " – because of me, but not diminished." He paused to regain the power in his tone. "You are an excellent doctor, a dignified First Lady, a loving mother. And you are the rest of me. My God, I love you, Abbey."

She wiped the tear that slid down his face and it mixed with her own tears on her fingers. Maybe he was a jackass, but he was the most wonderful jackass in the world. Oh how she loved him. And whatever happened tomorrow, after she gave up what was most important to her, apart from him and the girls, she would still be Abbey Bartlet, still be First Lady, still be the rest of him.

She lowered her wet face to his and let their lips brush together, no passion for the moment, no lust, just deep, unquestioned love. She fought back the urge to burst out into sobs, to cling to him. Instead, she focused on bringing the conversation back to a more manageable emotional level.

"Where did you find the quote?" she asked.

He knew what she was doing. She smiled at the brow that rose in mock insult. "I happen to have some knowledge of literature. I almost selected an appropriate comment from Elbert Hubbard."

"Who?"

"A novelist."

"What was it?"

"'Life is just one damned thing after another.'"

She laughed. Too close to the truth.

"It's from _The Philistine_," he continued, his voice transforming dangerously into the tone of a lecturing professor. "Published in 1909. Sometimes this quote is attributed to Frank Ward O'Malley, but—"

"Jed."

"Shut up?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

She glanced at the clock. Time was up. They had even overshot the extra ten minutes Charlie bought for them. She had so many things to say, but he knew them already. So instead she settled for sending him off with a lighter thought, a simple reminder.

"Tonight was – memorable."

"Yes, it was," he agreed. "Next time—"

Her fingers touched his lips and he stopped. "No. You'll be back and I'll be waiting. It will still be THIS time. I owe you, remember?"

He chuckled. "You took care of that debt already."

Her hair tickled his chest as she shook her head and grinned at him, eyes flashing with re-ignited desire. "That," she said, caressing him intimately, "was the principle. Wait 'till you get the interest."

"As I confronted her, the changes grew less apparent to me, her identity stronger. She was there, in the full vigor of her personality, battered but not diminished, looking at me, speaking to me in the husky, breathy voice I remembered so well." – Willa Cather, _My Antonia_, Book V.


End file.
